


Can I be the girl that you met at the coin laundry?

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Come Marking, Dirty Talk, First Time, Humor, Laundry, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Pajamas & Sleepwear, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy Kink, Riding, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27616174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: Hughie starts wearing a pair of Robin's shorts around the bunker for comfort. Butcher is less than impressed.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Comments: 34
Kudos: 259





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me why this happened - well really it was because I couldn't get Hughie in short shorts and Butcher's over the top reaction out of my head. 
> 
> Title from Coin Laundry by Lisa Mitchell.
> 
> Amazing fan art that you must check out below:

It’s weird, isn’t it?

Of all the momentos he could’ve taken to remember Robin, his broken, PTSD fucked brain decides to cling to this.

It’s not like he chose them, consciously. Hughie has less than five minutes to pack, abandon his old life, when he barges into his former place of residence, practically slamming the door shut on Frenchie.

The Frenchman is effectively feigning concern, but they both know he’s only there as an assurance that Hughie won’t escape.

Or, more accurately, jump headfirst through the still closed window screaming at the top of his lungs, plummeting to his death rather than facing the limitless wrath of actual super heroes.

One of which he just stone cold murdered, covering him in an explosion of entrails and goo and his own vomit.

He’s fine, yeah?

Totally handling this.

He has less than a minute to rummage through his drawers, jamming any clothes he get his hands on before his Dad pokes his head in the door with twenty questions.

The resulting argument is worse than anything else he’s done today, watching the colour drain from his father’s face, hurting him enough that he’ll get the hell out of his way and let him go without giving chase.

It isn’t until he returns to their underground lodgings, dumping the scattered remains of his former life on the soiled mattress, that he spots them.

Robin’s pyjama pants.

“Oh god, oh fuck, no, no, no...”

It hits him like the force of A-Train decimating her body as she stepped off the curb into the path of unforgiving destruction.

He closes his eyes instinctively as he did then. When he just stood there and didn’t save her. He feels the spray of viscous matter splash on his eyelids, nose, cheeks, hair; opens them immediately as the panic intensifies.

“Stop being a cunt and breathe.”

For some reason, Butcher’s demanding voice in his head helps a little.

He huffs out a laugh, choking on his own constricted airway as the rapid rise and fall of his chest races to keep up with his pounding heart.

Desperate to ground himself as his breathing continues to escalate, Hughie throws himself onto the bed.

It should be embarrassing but he’s too wound up to think straight. Being amongst your things is meant to settle you, right? Sure. Surrounded by murderous strangers in a cold, dank bunker that is one set of metal bars and a jumpsuit away from being a prison.

Before he has time to think, his fingers wrap around the delicate worn material.

Hughie buries his face in the worn softness, inhaling shakily. His nostrils flare as he attempts to breath in the faint scent of her that still lingers after all this time.

It takes him a second to realise that his Dad has put them through the laundry with the other clothes strewn about his bedroom floor.

For the first time that day, the dam of emotion building behind his eyes spills over, drenching the material as he buries his head into the mattress, wallowing in how truly fucking alone he is now.

*

A couple of weeks pass on the fucked up alternate universe the boys call existence. Things aren’t great but they get easier everyday. Time may not heal all wounds, but they scab them over enough to allow you to barely function, even if you are one band-aid rip away from falling apart.

Hughie does his best to hide how much he relishes the small comfort that the tiny scrap of fabric provides, but it’s not long before laying them across the thread bare pillow that he screams into when he’s given a seconds respite isn’t enough anymore.

When he first starts wearing them, it’s in the faux-privacy of his own sleeping area.

The reason behind it is less than sentimental. He realises that his one pair of track pants reek and his last pair of clean underwear was unsalvageable after their last near death supe experience.

“Fuck me.” Hughie groans to himself, gathering up all the items he needs to hand wash in the dirty basin water before hanging out on display for all to see into a messy pile.

Shucking off his filthy sweatpants, he drags on the pyjama pants without much thought.

He smiles fondly, remembering when Robin had insisted that he try them on one summer when their air con was broken and he has nothing but jeans while sneaking over to her parents.

“I don’t want to show you up, that’s all!” He joked, as she bartered him with her hands. He was drunk enough and hot enough to give it go, even if he was secretly terrified of her making fun of his chicken legs.

Her exasperated sigh had only set him more on edge.

“That’s just unfair.” She groaned loudly.

“What?” Hughie asked nervously. Had he stretched them on something?

“Spin around.” She had instructed.

Hughie had tried to ignore the flush colouring his too pale chest as he complied.

“Well?”

“It’s your ass.”

“Excuse me?”

“It looks cuter than mine, so now you have to keep them!”

She had spanked him hard as he shouted indignantly before tackling her to the bed in a fit of shrieks.

Shaking his head fondly, Hughie sighs as he fiddles with the drawstring. He’s lost weight in his belly since he initially tried them on, so they’re slung lower on his hips.

The material caresses his legs smoothly as he pulls them up, causing the fine hairs to stand up. It’s been so long since he felt anything close to sensitive, numbed by his existence now.

They do cling a little more insistently to his thighs and behind. He’s put on some muscle there surprisingly - presumably with all the running for your life and less from any conscious aerobic effort.

It should bother him, but doesn’t - just another reminder of Robin close to his skin.

Gathering the clothes in a bundle, he takes a deep breath before heading into the living area.

“The actual fuck is this, princess?” The disdain in Butcher’s voice is more clearly identifiable than his question accent as he takes in Hughie’s new attire.

“Laundry.” Hughie shoots back, unperturbed as he ambles over to the sink. He can’t stand that nickname. Blatant sexism aside, it makes his stomach cramp uncomfortably, a reflex he can’t explain.

French whistles appreciatively at the display.

“Domesticity with a view, it’s like being back home, MM; non?”

“You got the silk panties to match those?” MM jokes.

“You want to see?” Hughie whips around, calls his bluff before his better judgement can stop him, dragging down the hem to reveal his treasure train and the bare strip of skin beneath it.

MM covers his eyes, anticipating more flesh than is currently on show. Frenchie laughs, applauding, while Butcher snorts into his beer.

“No thanks. If I wanted a show, I’d explore Frenchie’s browser history.” MM pretends to gag.

“You wish your tastes were so refined.” Frenchie snorts, looking down his nose.

Hughie ignores them, trying to get through the soaping of the garments as quickly as possible. Bites down on his sudden urge to flee back to his sleeping area and never come out.

“They’re just jealous.” The hallucination of Robin supplies. She has begun to appear less frequently now he’s joined this motley crew.

Hughie doesn’t respond, keeps his head down and on the task at hand. Tries to forget how acutely aware he is that the shorts are firmly hugging his ass, presenting it for the room to see.

“They’re very pretty. I like the...what do you call them...the little bobbly bits...?” Frenchie asks, English failing him as he attempts to describe the item of clothing more accurately.

“Tassels?”

“Oui!”

“Thanks guys.” Hughie replies quickly, hurriedly getting through the pile.

Butcher is unnervingly silent throughout the routine teasing. It might be the lack of sleep that has him imagining things, but he swears he can feel the Brit’s dark eyes burning into him, watching his movements with poorly concealed interest.

“Where’d you get them?” MM asks, finally.

He’s been expecting it, but it doesn’t stop Hughie’s breath catching in his throat, palms itching when the words get stuck there.

“Home.” He croaks, all but abandoning the clothes in a wet, sopping heap in the sink when he turns tail and retreats.

*

The Boys take the teasing down a notch after that.

He can tell they feel bad.

Frenchie sheepishly announces his presence before briefing the next morning, arms laden with his neatly folded clothes.

“Je suis desolee, mon ami,” Frenchie apologies, gently depositing the piles on the bed next to Hughie, who just looks confused, “Mother’s Milk is sorry too - he hung them all up after you left, even pressed some of the shirts.”

It’s a huge gesture in their line of work; favours are rarely given freely, their own black market currency.

“You didn’t have too...” Hughie starts before Frenchie leans down to kiss him on the cheek. It’s startling but familiar rather than intimate.

“We know how hard it can be, adjusting to this,” Frenchie explains, gesturing at their depressing living conditions as if to sum up their vagrant way of life, “You wear whatever you like, whatever makes you feel like home.”

Hughie chokes up, surprised at the emotion that seizes in his chest, the feeling of acceptance that threatens to overwhelm him.

Frenchie pats him on the cheek, a shared understanding between them, before leaving.

*

Hughie starts to feel like one of the crew.

It almost gives him license to feel native in this alien environment. His skin still feels too tight; a snake uncomfortably waiting to leave its old outer casing behind. But he’s more comfortable than he’s been since...Robin.

He starts wearing the shorts around more regularly when they’re not on a mission.

MM compliments his legs in the most brotherly fashion possible, asking if he’s been working out.

Frenchie offers to mend some of the holes, which Hughie politely declines. Turns out he’s handy with a needle, with a dexterity thats not just limited to injecting or stabbing.

The only one with a problem, shock horror, is Butcher.

It starts with the sexist comments (well, did that ever end?)

“If you keep wearing those around, the lads might start to get the wrong idea about you, sweetheart.” Butcher folds his arms over his chest, giving him the once over with a lascivious raise of his dark eyebrows.

“Good.” Hughie replies; short and to the point.

This he can handle and as time goes on, he only gets braver.

“Quite an eyeful there. Mind putting it away?” Butcher grunts, clearly in a mood.

Hughie’s in the process of reaching up to grab something high up. The movement causes his shirt to ride up, exposing the dimples in his lower back.

He doesn’t bite, drowns Butcher out, focusing on collecting the goddamn chemicals he swears Frenchie places out of reach just to make his life hard.

They’ve all been tense since their last mission went less than favourably, barely escaping by the skin of their teeth.

“Seriously, it’s a bit much.” Butcher continues. The rustle as he pretends to read the newspaper is beyond irritating.

Hughie jumps and reaches, successfully swiping the item but nearly bringing down the entire shelf on the process.

“Coordination’s still as shit as your fashion sense, I see.” Butcher snickers, shaking his head dismissively.

Glancing over his shoulder, Hughie fumes as he catches his breath. If Butcher wants to embarrass him, two can play at that game.

“Like what you see?” He shoots back.

“Excuse me?” Butcher snaps the paper down, dark eyes wide. Got his attention properly now has he? Great.

Hughie grabs a handful of his ass cheek, squeezes and lifts.

“If you want to break off a piece so badly, why don’t you come get it?” He challenges, aware of how lame is sounds, disregarding the colour rising in his face, bloodying his neck.

“The fuck did you say to me?” Butcher barks, stumbling in his haste to get on his feet, advancing with startling intent.

To his own shock, Hughie spins, stands his ground, even as he’s backed up so fast that he slams into the metal cabinet, temporarily knocking winding him.

Butcher’s chest is pressed up against his, practically caving it in with this size difference. He uses his height advantage to tower over him.

“The only thing you need to shut more than your legs is your mouth, you silly little cunt.” He snaps, flecks of spits hitting Hughie in the face. His breath stinks of beer.

Hughie should be terrified, but his own indignation trumps the fear. Butcher can go fuck himself if he thinks he’s going to intimidate Hughie in their shared living space. He’s sacrificed just as much for their cause, put his life on the line, earned his spot.

He may not be top dog, doesn’t even want to be, but he’s no bitch. The Boys are starting to warm to him; maybe Butcher’s threatened?  
Worse, maybe it’s just old fashioned bigotry.

It send a sick thrill down his spine, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“For someone who’s so uncomfortable with my appearance, you sure have a lot of opinions on it.” Hughie forges on, meets his gaze, inches away from his face.

“You want my opinion? Stop running your mouth and walk away before I put you over my knee like your father should’ve when you were a tike.”

He’s hard, he realises belatedly; must be the fight or flight doing strange things to his body.

“Blow me.” He spits.

He barely dodges in time when Butcher nearly puts his fist through the cabinet, the metal groaning in protest as it caves in. Thanks his poor but developing reflexes.

Fuck, that could’ve been his skull.

He should run, but it doesn’t matter.

The other men are in there like a shot. MM restrains Butcher, who is snarling like a caged thing, barking obscenities. Frenchie manoeuvres Hughie back and away, out of the room.

“Mon dieu, what is the meaning of this?”

Hughie blinks, dumbfounded before finding his tongue.

“I just got over him fucking harassing me, and when I called him on his shit, he lost it.”

He isn’t aware that he’s practically hyperventilating until Frenchie sits him down on his scummy mattress, rubbing his shoulders encouragingly and coaxing him to breathe through his nose.

“Are you hurt?”

Hughie shakes his head, before dropping it between his knees.

What the fuck just happened?

“He’s a buffoon with a short fuse,” Frenchie spits to the side bitterly, “He’s always been good at...how do you say...dishing it out, but he can’t take it, you know?”

“I know, but -“

He’s crying before he can stop himself, shoulders shuddering as the sobs wrack his exhausted frame.

He hears Frenchie stand quietly, slowly retreating from the room. Increasingly escalating yells encroach intrusively from the common area.

“Take some time, eh? I’ll see if MM needs help slipping Butcher a sedative.”

Hughie is grateful, manages to bite back a keen of hopelessness until Frenchie is gone.

He’s not even that upset but once he starts, he can’t stop. He cries himself to the point of exhaustion, passing out on top of the mattress.

*

When insomnia hits weeks later for the third night in a row, Hughie does laundry in the middle of the night to stop himself going insane.

On top of his sleeplessness, they’ve been locked down in the bunker for days, outside of the occasional raid. 

Specifically Hughie, who is now on A-Train’s radar after a run in with Starlight.

“You can’t keep me locked in here forever!” He yells pathetically after Butcher announces he’ll be staying behind for the fifth day in a row.

“Think about it next time you decide to be a daft cunt.” Butcher snorts, as Frenchie and MM shoot him rueful glances but say nothing.

So he sneaks out.

It’s the middle of summer and the bunker stinks and he just needs a breath of fresh air. When he catches himself casually contemplating what he would use to hand himself from the exposed pipe in his ceiling, he knows he has to make a break for it.

The destination isn’t far and his motives are pure enough. He’s down to his last pairs of clean clothes, zipping up a black hoodie and toeing on his filthy sneakers.

That’s what he tells himself anyway; that he’s wearing Robin shorts because they’re the only clothes he has left; not because he needs something tangible to cling to, holding on by a thread like the tassels dangling unstably at the hem.

Hefting his wet clothes into a pillowcase over his shoulder, Hughie slips out quietly, checking that the coast is clear.

The dirty city air is equivalent to inhaling an air-freshener after what feels like a lifetime underground.

The laundromat is blessedly deserted when he enters, and Hughie releases a sigh of relief, relaxing at the welcome sound of silver.

He relishes the simplicity of the task, sorting the colours from the whites, measuring out the powder, dumping the contents into two different machines.

The satisfying fit of the coins entering the slot, clinking and jingling as they roll before bringing the machines whirring to life is so absurdly satisfying that Hughie laughs, out loud, to no one.

Fuck he’s losing it.

The dim neon lights and the rhythmic sound of the machines causes exhaustion to set in all of a sudden.

Hughie stretches before rubbing his eyes. He jumps on top of one of his machines, planning to dangle his legs and rest for a minute. It had always looked like fun when he was a kid, but his father was always so strict.

Letting his eyes float closed, the machine jumping beneath him causes his eyes to snap open.

Fun indeed.

The vibrations quickly going from slightly unnerving to being uncomfortable for an entirely different reason.

Hughie sighs, relaxing and shutting his eyes, trying to empty his mind. He takes a few deep breathes, exhaling for what feels like the first time in weeks. He lets the gentle tremors run through his body.

It’s the best he’s felt since he can remember.

His abdomen flexes gently, toes curling in his sneakers of their own accord. His pelvis rocks pleasurably with the movement of the machine beneath him; legs unconsciously falling wider open as the memory of easy pleasure trails from his tailbone up like a gentle caress.

“Shit.” Hughie groans, leaning into the sensation.

He’s so relaxed that that he nearly jumps out of his skin when the door crashes open.

“Wait till I get my hands on you, you selfish little bastard!” Butcher yells, storming up the opposite isle.

He moves so quickly that Hughie’s only able to gape when he descends upon him like a coming storm, black trench coat billowing behind him.

Butcher stops dead in front of him and rather than unleashing another verbal tirade, looks straight down.

“I can explain...” Hughie stammers, then freezes, legs still akimbo.

He was so caught up in stealing a second of happiness, in feeling good, that his lizard brain is only just alerting him to the raging boner pressing up against Robin’s shorts.

“It’s pretty fucking clear from where I’m standing,” Butcher remarks casually, bushy eyebrows raised in amusement, “Commando for this covert operation, was it?”

He’s not wearing underwear; they’re all in the washing machine.

“Forgot.” He replies helplessly.

Butcher chuckles darkly, and steps between his spread legs.

“Course you did. You’re fucking dumb with it, aren’t you?” He murmurs with a shake of his head.

Hughie nearly jumps out of his skin when the calloused hands land on his knee, slowly working their way up his pale thighs. The pressure isn’t gentle, leaves red track marks up his legs.

Combined with the vibrations of the machine, it’s enough to make his eyes roll back, head tilting skyward, exposing his throat, all pink and vulnerable.

It’s been so long since he’s been touched like this, even by himself. Every synaptic ending is firing inside him, the fair blonde hairs on his legs standing at attention as the capable fingers sweep torturously up and down the expanse of flesh.

“How long’s it been?” Butcher asks, genuinely curious as he fingers the tassels at the hem.

Hughie doesn’t trust himself to reply, only utters a truly desperate whine that makes him wish he could choke on his own saliva, on the frustration building in his balls, in his aching cock.

“Since before?”

He does choke when Butcher hands slip beneath the material, sliding up to the tops of his sweaty thighs.

“Figures, with the way you’re prancing around, practically presenting yourself....and the attitude on it!”

Butcher’s hand travel lower, circling around to squeeze his ass cheeks. The movement lifts him off partially off the lid of the washing machine.

Hughie gasps as his cock presses against the thin fabric of the shorts as he’s lifted, rubbing torturously as Butcher’s hands trap all the give in the fabric.

He alternates mercilessly, kneading the tight muscles with every clench and release. The undulation is almost unbearable in contrast to the uneven bounce of the machine beneath him.

“Exquisite, that.” Butcher comments and Hughie feels himself heat up at the praise, a gentle flush spreading from his neck down his chest, warming him against the cold metal.

He could slide off, he’s so fucking wet.

It’s almost like Butcher can read his twisted mind, follows him down the rabbit hole when he regrettably frees one hand from his pant leg.

Hughie whines at the loss of contact.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you pet.” Butcher promises.

He opens the drawstring without preamble and dives in, wrapping his thick fingers around Hughie’s weeping cock.

“Fuck!” Hughie cries out in disbelief, jumping into the clutch of Butcher’s hand, hips stuttering.

This is insane.

“Becca has a pair of shorts like this. Probably why I acted like a bit of a prick around you, if I’m honest.” Butcher says, rubbing his thumb over the weeping tip. Was that nearly an apology?

“Ohh...”

Hughie should be embarrassed by the amount of slick that coats his hand as he teases, but can’t bring himself to give a shit. Any semblance of shame goes out the window when Butcher collects it to lubricate his length in firm, rough strokes.

“She’s a bit like you, never knows how to say what she needs,” He chuckles, a bittersweet sound that gets stuck in his throat, beginning to increase his rhythm.

“So instead of coming out with it, she’d wear these little panties around...jammies supposedly. Fucking see through like these ones...rode up her ass cause she tied em up so high on her speck of a waist...”

Butcher squeezes his ass cheek violently to punctuate the statement and it’s enough to make Hughie moan aloud; high pitched and echoing around the empty laundry mat with the cyclops eyes of a hundred machines on them.

“Too proper to use a rubber cock, so sometimes when I’d be out on the job, she’d go downstairs and sit on the dryer to get off. How’s it feel?”

“Go-good...” Hughie slurs, drunk with it. His legs have spread even wider, wanting more, craving the sensation all over his skin, too enraptured by the story, by feeling fuck alive again to respond properly.

“One day I caught her...bit like this actually...” Butcher begins to strip him more violently, pounding his fist solidly into the base of his abdomen on the downstroke. It will bruise tomorrow and Hughie can’t wait to push his fingers into the indents, if he survives that long, survives this.

Butcher plants a hand in the centre of his chest and pushes him down onto his back, ignoring the way his shoulders and neck crush against the dials.

“Please...” Hughie moans, not even sure what’s he asking for, shamelessly whinging when Butcher removes the hand from his cock, leaving it to flop heavily against his still clothed belly.

Butcher wordlessly hooks his calves over his shoulders, ripping the shorts to one side. Hughie faintly hears a tear, too turned on to think beyond the look of manic concentration on Butcher’s face as he exposed him, devouring him with his eyes.

“Her cunt was all puffy like yours, ass spread and jiggling, drenching those poor little pink shorts in wet...that why you came down here?”

“Needed to get clean,” Hughie groans desperately, barely aware of the words dribbling out of his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he was this horny. His neck is kinking and his hamstrings are cramping and all he gives a fuck about is Butcher’s words, his hands, his malicious intentions, “All dirty.”

“Filthy thing.” Butcher snarls, with a devious smile, teeth bared.

Hughie jolts when a finger presses against his unprepared hole, circling predatorily.

“Came to wash up but couldn’t help yourself. Fucking sopping, making a mess everywhere, what’s on more spin in the middle of the night with no one to catch you?”

The finger slides inside, hooking cruelly on the tight ring of muscle before disappearing easily into the depths.

A second and third quickly follow, working him open at a devastating pace.

The motions are merciless in their force as he begins fucking him with his hand, scissoring him open at a brutal pace. It hurts, aches deep and low in the scarred places, but the promise of absolution is enough to keep him hanging on, nearly biting through his own lip in his bid to tamp down on his scream.

Over the tumbling of the machines and the loud squelching his ministrations are producing, Hughie hears Butcher cursing as he unfastens his own pants.

It’s somehow makes it’s dizzyingly hotter that he’s still full clothed, garments hastily pushed to the side. Like Butcher couldn’t wait to get his hands on him, not even bothered to get his own pants the whole way off.

“You do this often, meeting in laundry mats like this? Take it so easy...didn’t start before I got here, did you?” Butcher’s breathing is laboured as he fucks into him, stabbing with his fingers and making no effort to seek out his prostate.

His breathing catches as he abandons Hughie’s untended member to get his own end away, furiously beginning to pump his own cock, rhythmic and dry.

It’s fucking perfect.

Hughie shakes his head, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries and fails to swallow around the knot of tension in his throat, hold off the friction building at the base of his spine with an intensity that’s overwhelming.

The reverberations from the machine shudder through his whole body as it begins to tremble, rolling waves of pleasure shaking his exhausted, crumpled frame.

“Was just sitting...waiting...couldn’t sleep...” He hiccups, catching the sob trying to claw its way out, feeling moisture beginning to build behind his eyes as the exhaustion catches up with him.

“Course you couldn’t,” Butcher coos, voice dripping with faux sympathy as he stretches Hughie wider and wider, testing the resistance of his delicate inner walls, “When was the last time you fed this hungry little pussy? It’s empty.”

Hughie nods vigorously, unable to help the whimper that escapes as the cycle kicks up a notch in its final stages of its spinning.

“Want you to fill it.” He hears someone say and surely that can’t be him? The voice is foreign, unbearably broken.

Butcher growls appreciatively, sighing almost reverently inserts a fourth finger into the gaping passage.

Hughie cries out, straining upwards; the motion only buries the hand deeper inside him.

“Oh sweetheart, before our time is done, I’m going to fucking ruin you...” Butcher promises savagely.

“I’m close, please...” Hughie gasps.

The dryer beneath him is slowing further, signalling the end of the cycle approaching. It’s a shitty metaphor but his body and mind are conflicted, desperate for release but also hoping it never comes.

“Go on then, touch yourself, princess.” Butcher instructs, increasing his own pace, his devastating exploration kicking up in its intensity.

His fingers stab wildly as Hughie reaches quickly for his own cock, engorged and purple. When he gets his shaking fist around it, it’s so oversensitised that he hisses.

“Hurts,” Hughie moans, still stroking himself obediently with trembling fingers.

“Next time, when I fuck you proper senseless, you’re going to be wearing these,” Butcher rambles.

His movements are getting more erratic. Almost by accident, the worn pads of his fingers trip over the small bundle of nerves that sends intense sparks of pleasure shooting up Hughie’s spine.

“Won’t matter where you are; next time I fucking catch you in them, you better be ready,” Butcher swears under his breath, head dropping as he focuses on the dual action of his hands.

“Better be...prepped for me...all wet and plaint like this. Because I’m going to push your sopping little panties to the side and slip right in, fill you with my cock and pump you full of my cum, leave you leaking and sore and wrecked...”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’m gonna come,” Hughie cries out, his fist a blur as his climax hits.

It’s only intensified, his world narrowed down to a black pin prick, when Butcher slips all three fingers out, leaving his abused hole gaping the air.

He’s still riding out the aftershocks when Butcher slams his hand flat against the side of the machine, snapping upright and straining with exertion as he chases his own finish.

“Tell me you’re a dirty little slut.” Butcher groans, locking eyes with Hughie as he fucks brutally into his own fist.

It might be his cum drunk mind playing games with him, but he improvises.

“I’m a dirty, cum hungry little slut,” He babbles, trying his best to keep his eyes opened, “Only for your cock. Only for you.”

“Motherfucker!” Butcher shouts, slamming his hips forward as he spills his load.

Hughie shuts his eyes just in time when the money shot is aimed squarely at his face. He opens them when the jet of warm wetness subsides, squinting as he wipes messily at the stickiness with the back of his hand.

“Asshole.”

Butcher smirks as he straightens, fastening his pants before smacking the underside of Hughie’s ass fondly.

“You’re welcome.”

“Excuse me?” Hughie guffaws, feeling his face beginning to heat unwillingly.

“You obviously needed it. Look where we fucking are; anyone could’ve come in at anytime.” Butcher gestures around before bowing slightly, ridiculous trench coat flapping around him grandly, “At your service.”

“Fuck off.” Hughie laughs, glad that there doesn’t need to be a discussion, that whatever fucked up sense of normality exists between them seems to be restored.

“Gladly,” Butcher nods, rummaging in the depths of his pockets before dropping a stack of coins on the top of the machine next to him, “For your troubles. Pop back once you’ve finished your domestic duties, ay?”

Hughie looks down with a shake of his head at his ruined clothes as Butcher departs.

He strips as he jumps off the machine, dumping the soiled garments into an empty washer beside him. 

There's another half hour before his clothes will be dry. 

Hughie's skin is glowing in the sickly yellow light, slick with sweat and sex and relief. He shivers, not just from the cold, wrapping his arms around himself and relaxing for the first time in weeks. 

“Cunt.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Butcher returns from a rough mission to find Hughie with his legs spread, wearing the shorts. 
> 
> “Laundry day, is it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn’t help myself and had to write a sequel in which the shorts get wrecked.

When Butcher finally comes for him, it’s nothing like Hughie expects. 

Hindsight is cruel like that. Butcher had always said he’d never see it coming, that it would be painless, better than anything the supes would offer him. 

Hughie should’ve scattered as soon as he entered the room, descending with all the presence of a coming storm, inescapable and wrathful. There’s an atmospheric shift; pressure dropping in preparation for the coming downpour.

And he’s wearing the fucking shorts.

“Incoming,” MM whistles when the door bangs open loudly.

Frenchie promptly takes cover behind the sofa, causing the other two men to burst into laughter. 

“The fuck are you chuckle heads carrying on about?” Butcher barks. Irritation rolls off him like a dark cloud, fractured by the lightning crack of his tone. 

“Nothing boss.” MM does his best to keep his voice neutral. 

Frenchie remains out of sight, having vacated the room completely. 

The smile on Hughie’s face melts away when the weight of Butcher’s stare falls on him. Sweat breaks out over his skin, drenching him and leave him bone cold.

Butcher’s expression twists maliciously.

“Laundry day, is it?”

Hughie swallows. In his periphery, he sees MM make an aborted attempt at a warning signal before making a hasty exit. 

His legs are wide open where he’s perched on the couch. 

Butcher clears the room with predatory intent, moving into the gap like it’s his property. Fingers that have pulled triggers, strangled, maimed men and immortals alike twist into the mop of his hair, ripping vigorously.

“Answer me.”

Hughie gasps as the tearing sends needles of pain through his scalp.

“No.”

Butcher hums, smiling derangedly when the clench and twist of his enclosed fist elicits a sharp cry. 

“So what are you doing then?”

Hughie opens his mouth, a word tumbling out as he looks up defiantly at the man above him. 

“Waiting.” 

Butcher cocks an expectant eyebrow, deep brown eyes shining dangerously. Flecks of green catch in the poor light, disappearing as quickly as the dark side of the moon. 

“Yeah?”

“To get fucked.” The words spill out of his mouth before he can stop them.

Butcher controls his expression well, but shock passes over his face like a shadow.

“Really.”

“That’s what sluts do, right? Wait for their holes to be filled,” Hughie snorts, taking another pull of his drink. Maybe he’s had one too many in the hours since the Brit has been gone. 

“My toothbrush barely touches the edges, so I came out to have a beer with every intent of using the bottle as a supplement...”

He babbling and he’s going to get hurt, but he’s been waiting so long and wants it’s so badly that he needs Butcher to see it, even if he can’t straigh out ask.

“Then I was going to ask the boys if they’d help stretch me out...get one at each end, you know, suck in’ and fuckin’...”

When Butcher moves, viper quick, Hughie braces in preparation for the strike, slamming his eyes shut.

The clash of teeth against his own, mouth parted in surprise, hits him harder than a sucker punch. He tastes blood, opening his mouth to allow the demanding tongue entry, mingling with spit and desperate need.

His jaw remains pliant even as he threatens to gag on the dirty, calloused fingers that press down the sensitive floor; a bruising grip wiring forcing it wide . 

“Open.”

Hughie complies and is rewarded by Butcher spitting directly into his mouth. 

“Swallow.”

Butcher watches with cold disinterest as Hughie does as he’s told, burying his fingers intensely into the hinge of his jaw. The sound of bone grinding into bone echoes obscene amongst the ragged breathing. 

The rough contact is broken brutally, leaving Hughie cold and wanting. Before he can contemplate a whinge of loss, an inhuman howl of agony tears from his throat when he’s dragged bodily to his feet by the roots of his hair. 

Butcher rips his old band tee clean off his shoulders in one perfectly executed movement; then spins him and tosses him over the arm of the couch, rag-dolling him like he’s six foot of nothing. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever experienced, even if the force of its winds him. 

“Told you your smart mouth would get you in trouble.” Butcher snarls, his breathing attractively laboured. 

Hughie gasps when the flimpsy material of his shorts is bunched into the crack of his ass.

Butcher makes a displeased grunt as he squeezes his cheeks, still covered in his boxer briefs. 

Hughie tenses as he feels the material being torn from his body, shifting uncomfortably as his erection is crushed against the couch. 

This is unspeakably humiliating and mind blowingly arousing at the same time and his body can’t keep up with his brains perverse reactions.

The scraps of material are yanked roughly from his body. 

There is a moment when all contact is lost, and Hughie mewls, shivering in the cold as Butcher steps away. 

He doesn’t dare lift his head from where it’s buried between his elbow, mind foggy in its submissiveness. 

“Better.” 

Butcher’s palms ghost over the bare globes of his ass, raising goosebumps with their treacherous descent.

It hurts more than it should when he finally strikes Hughie where the crease of flesh meets the thigh. The force lights him up like a live wire, nerves singing with the pain.

“What did I tell you would happen next time I found you like this?” Butcher demands. The second and third smacks bring tears to Hughie’s eyes, wincing as he feels the soft padding snap with the strength behind the blow.

“You’d take me whereever you found me.” Hughie sobs, warm rivulets of shame spilling down his cheeks. 

“And did you get ready for me?” Butcher growls. He begins to strike him with alternating hits to each side, building up a rhythm that doesn’t relent as Hughie’s body tenses, absorbing the weight of the punishment.

Hughie shakes his head, unable to trust himself to speak, reduced to cries of hurt as Butcher brutalises his reddening flesh with the unforgiving flat of his palm. 

He’s shaking uncontrollably, unable to shy away from the beating. In the depths of his being, he knows he can take it, has taken life with his own hands and had it robbed from him. 

He wouldn’t tell Butcher to stop even if he could. 

“What the fuck was that about, asking the boys for a hand?” Butcher spits. He picks a particularly tender spot and goes to town on it - lashing it over and over until his hand begins to cramp.

God it hurts like that. 

“Wanted you to be able to slip right in when you walked through the door.”

The hand stills at that, landing heavily and resting on his backside. He can feel Butcher’s weight hovering just above his back.

“Fucking hell, Hughie.” Butcher groans, “You didn’t but, did you?”

“Couldn’t!” Hughie shouts, voice cracking under the strain, “Not theirs.”

Butcher makes an approving sound, possessive and guttural, at that and blessedly relents.

Relief floods Hughie, only makes him cry harder into the protective shield of his arms as Butcher begins soothing the over heated expanse, rubbing tender circles into his skin. 

“Damn right you’re not.” Butcher grunts. He takes his time, squeezing and smoothing the tenderised muscles of his ass, massaging the deep tissue. 

Hughie moans into the arm of the couch, grateful that Butcher can’t see his face even if the rest of him is shockingly on display. 

He flinches when he feels the bunched material of the shorts being pulled roughly to one side; jumps when the pad of a teasing finger prods gently at his puckered hole. 

Butcher laughs, blowing hot air over his entrance, rubbing his flanks as Hughie shivers in response.

He uses his thumbs to further his inspection, spreading his cheeks to stretch him wider.

Hughie chokes when he realises the psychopath is genuinely checking to see whether he has let anything else (inanimate or otherwise) invade his person.

“You’re so tight, they could’ve double teamed you for hours and I wouldn’t have a fucking clue.”

He sinks a finger in as he talks, no spit, no preamble, no warning. Hughie keens as he feels the knuckle push against the resistant ring of muscle, wriggling insistently before forcing its entry.

“Could lose a finger in there. How am I to know your greedy little cunt hasn’t swallowed up all the evidence, hmm?” Butcher enquires casually.

He wiggles the appendage to emphasise his point. Hughie digs his own into the couch, sensitive walls involuntarily clamping down around the intrusion.

“Are you kidding me?” Hughie laughs, breathless as the absurdity of it. 

Butcher replies by pressing in further, dryly pressing onto the tight passage until his entire finger is buried, thrusting insistently. 

“Oh my god, I swear, nothing’s been in there, fuck!” Hughie shouts, not giving a shit that the other boys can hear every word. 

He’s not sure what hurts worse - the sharp pain from the rough entry, unlubricated and unexpected, or the anticipation; the far reaching promise of what’s to come.

“Only one way to find out.”

Instead of another finger or the entire fist, the ghost of warm breath and the bristling scratch of a thick beard against untouched skin preceed the first press of a tongue, thick and wet and insistent.

“Oh my god...” Hughie moans, unable to help but buck back into Butcher’s buried face.

It’s the most overwhelmingly erotic thing he’s ever experienced. 

Butcher eats him out with the same single minded determination he applies to their work; all-consuming, disregarding time and exertion, not even stopping to remove the finger already wedged inside. 

The two working in tandem reduces Hughie to a writhing, keening mess. He can feel every inch of the slick muscle moving inside him. His untended cock is dampening the front of his shorts, soaking them through and intensifying the friction as he humps into the couch.

His orgasm begins crest without warning, the gentle tingling in the pit of his stomach shooting up his spine with blinding intensity. 

He needs to come so fucking badly, and the thought of breaking Butcher’s nose as he rides his face is so perversely satisfying he nearly looses it right there.

Instead, he makes the mistake of voicing his desire.

“Please, I’m so close...please, fuck...” 

Butcher immediately pulls back, Hughie whining as he feels his inner walls collapse in on themselves, gaping hungrily as he goes.

Hughie’s eyes roll back in his head as Butcher laughs cruelly, burping into the back of his hand

The couch springs creak in protest with the addition of a new weight settling behind him.  
Instead of settling over his back, Hughie is surprised when he’s left cold and shivering. 

“Didn’t think you were getting off that easy, did ya?”

The tone is dangerously low, beckoning and Hughie follows the sound, turning to look over his back, freezing.

The sight laid out before him robs his already strangled breath from his lungs, kicking his heart beat into double time.

In his ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, with no right to look as good as he does, Butcher is a nightmare and a wet dream all wrapped up in one. 

Splayed out on his back, one large hand feeds his rigid cock through his black underwear. Legs spread loosely triangled, he hasn’t even bothered to take off his jeans, boots planted firmly in the filthy cushions. 

His cock is thick and weeping as he strokes it lazily, dark eyes malicious with lust. Hughie swears he can almost taste the drip of the earthy musk from here, mouth watering with the desire to suck, lick, devour. 

“Show us your tits, then.”

Feeling his cheeks colour, Hughie rubs his nipples subconsciously, tender and rosy and peaked in the chilly air of their below ground dwelling. 

Butcher continues to stroke his cock languidly, taking in the curve of Hughie’s back, the suggestion of his pecs with indulgent interest.

He slaps his still denim clad thigh with his free hand.

“On you pop.”

“Excuse me?” Hughie splutters.

He cannot be serious. 

Butcher throws his head back, releasing a frustrated snort through his nose as he fucks into his own fist. The thick column of his throat works as he mutters to himself, temporarily lost in the sensation of his own dexterity. 

It’s distracting in the most inconvenient way, almost makes Hughie forget that Butcher just told him to sit on his cock like he might ask him to make a cup of tea. 

Butcher is clearly unimpressed by the silence, snapping partially upright with a warning note in his voice.

“Do I have to do everything around this joint?” He curses, mainly to himself, before looking back at Hughie with clear disdain.

His cock looks angrier than he does, purple in its fullness. Hughie wants to memorise the snaking veins popping out with his tongue, feel each individual ridge as he swallows him. 

He wants all of it, okay? But this moment kind of reminds Hughie of the first time he saw Butcher swing that larger than life automatic over his shoulder.; torn between dropping to his knees in surrender and running away screaming. The thing is a fucking weapon, hefty and impossible intimidating. It’s going to tear him in half.

“You want a calligraphy embossed invitation or something?” Butcher tries again, barking in his impatience.

Hughie starts out of his thoughts, tries to form a coherent sentence. The temporary loss of composure in Butcher’s tone startles him in its earnestly; he wants, too. 

“I’ve never....”

He gestures lamely, doing little to convey the significance of the task at hand. 

“You’re a virgin? Shocking.” Butcher takes the opportunity to literally roll his eyes. He spits wetly into his hand like that will help, roughly spreading the sparse fluid over himself. 

“Oh my god, no,” Hughie fumes, “I mean...like that...” Of course they’d be stopping to argue; like their first time was going to go any other way. 

Butcher considers for a moment, before resuming his carnal relations with his hand, presumably stealing any remaining moisture with the movement. 

“You’ll love it,” He says, with his usual level of overconfidence, searching for the right metaphor, “It’s like riding a bike, ya know? Hurts the first time when you mash your balls against the seat and fall off.”

Hughie stares at him in disbelief, waiting forever the upside to the shitty pep talk. 

“And?”

“Then you, you know, get the hang of it,” Butcher finishes dismissively, focusing instead on his own tactile execution. His hips jumping as he twists his wrist on the upstroke are a sight to behold.

“You’re really selling it.”

His cock twitches in the dampening shorts. Somehow he’s still fucking hard. He must be sick in the head if just disagreeing with Butcher is enough to keep him up.

“Does everything we do need require a fifteen minute briefing beforehand?” Butcher returns, sinking lower onto his back, getting comfortable.

“Just making sure your expectations are suitably low.” Hughie mutters, combining a hand nervously through his unruly hair. 

If it’s going to be shit, he wants Butcher to be aware of it, instead of just being disappointed in him, like he is with everything else. His chest twists with emotion when he realises just how badly he wants to please him. 

His face must betray that, because something in Butcher’s expression softens, his grip stuttering for the briefest second. He shuts his eyes, composing himself, and Hughie tells himself its arousal, the need to get off, nothing more.

“Wasn’t it good last time?”

Hughie’s mind is transported immediately to the laundry where Butcher took him apart expertly without a word of instruction shared between them.

“Trust me.”

And hasn’t he already; with his loss, with his life? 

“Want to know why I want it this way?” Butcher asks, voice low and encouraging.

Hughie nods, tongue suddenly caught in his throat. He wants to give over to it so badly, desperate for the decisions to be taken away from him. 

“I said I’d fuck you on the spot, not that I’d hold your hand through it,” He jokes. Hughie can’t help the smile that breaks out over his face at that, lightening the mood. 

“I’ve been on my feet all day, so if you want to cum, you can put in the leg work,” He continues, the wiry muscles in his forearms bulging as he works himself closer to the edge, “If you’re not up for it, you can piss off and I’ll finish up on me own.” 

“What-“ Hughie’s mouth drops open in disbelief before shutting again. The asshole would threaten him too; leave him like this - open and leaking and unfulfilled. 

“Now stop fucking around and get your lovely arse over here.”

Hughie twists, nearly falling in his haste to get to shakily to his feet. His knees scream in protest, prone for too long as he scrambles.

Butcher chuckles as he hovers over his waist expectantly. 

“Other way. Face the wall.”

“Pardon?” Hughie splutters for what feels like the millionth time today. 

“If I wanted to look at your face, I’d do you missionary style. In a church.” 

Hughie, to his own horror, complies, biting down on his urge to throw insults or hands or burst into tears of frustration. 

“Beautiful.” Butcher affirms, almost warmly.

Any pretence of tenderness is eviscerated when he reaches out and smacks his behind. 

Hughie jumps at the unavoidable sting, unable to telegraph the moment, shuddering as he feels his ass cheek jiggle with the force of the slap.

“Kneel.”

Positioning himself over Butcher’s cock, Hughie thinks that maybe it’s a small act of kindness, the not facing each other. He can only imagine the hesitancy on his face as he looks down at the far too enormous obstacle beneath him, waiting to spear him in half.

An obscene noise interrupts his internal panic attack and Hughie is surprised to feels Butcher’s finger pressing into his entrance, coated with lube.

“I hate you so much,” Hughie sighs in relief, letting his head fall back as Butcher works him open from below with the lube with one hand, using the other to coat his own cock.

“I’m a gentleman and a squire, mate.” Butcher insists, biting back a groan of his own as his fingers slide easily inside him.

Calloused pads scissor open the tight heat of his clutch; a subtle flick of his wrist slips over the bundle of nerves that send sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine.

“Oh fuck!” Hughie shouts, nearly losing his balance.

“There she is, a little bit of enthusiasm, eh?” Butcher encourages, quickly removing his hand, reminding him that every pass comes at a price in their world, “Have a seat.”

Taking a deep breath to collect himself, Hughie lowers himself awkwardly until he can feel the overwhelming press of the cockhead against his dripping hole.

He reaches his hand between his legs, giving it an affirming squeeze before beginning to press it inside himself.

Butcher swears loudly as the tight ring of muscle protests, stubborn in its resistance, before beginning to give.

Hughie screws his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against the pain as the head makes the first breach. It hurts worse than he could’ve imagined, feels like it’s ripping him apart as the impossible wide dome of the head stretches him.

“Breathe.” Butcher instructs from behind. It’s comforting to hear that his voice is straining, breathing heavy as he tries to control his own response. Hughie feels less alone now he knows he’s the only one faking it till he makes it, trying not to openly fall apart.

Always prepared for the assist, Butcher kneads his ass cheeks gently, pushing and prodding to smooth the transition.

Hughie winces when the head (just the head, for fucks sake) finally finishes its stunted entry, the tightness snapping back around it. 

One large hand strokes his flank warmly, accompanying soft words of encouragement as the other lifts and lower his cheek, helping him accomodate the endless length. 

“Easy does it, now. Down you come.”

Thighs trembling, Hughie slowly begins the torturous descent, hoping that he doesn’t pass out on the way down. His knees fit awkwardly on either side of Butcher’s body, the pair of them barely fittiing on the tattered couch. 

It’s so overwhelming, the intensity of the stretch, the sheer fucking mass he’s forcing his body to absorb. His body has experienced real trauma before, and it’s nothing in comparison.   
The pain is still insistent, but just beneath the facade is the barest hint of pleasure, the respite enough to keep him focused. 

Butcher’s hands on his hips, bracing him as he guides him down, are enough to keep him present as his head spins, thumbs pressing grounding divots into the soft rolls of flesh there.

“Doing so good, taking it so well.” Butcher murmurs. Hughie subconsciously responds to the praise, clenching and releasing, and Butcher hisses at the flexion around his cock. 

A loud squelch announces to the room that Hughie is full seated. It’s beyond embarrassing how wet he is. 

“Fuck me.” Butcher groans, digging his fingers into Hughie’s hips with bruising force as he pants, hanging his head.

The restraint in the man is beyond admirable, hasn’t moved an inch even now that Hughie has properly mounted him.

The slightest clench of powerful thighs beneath him, barely shifting his weight in its controlled consideration, is the only betray of his own discomfort as he presses flush against him. 

“So full.” Hughie pants, struggling to lift his head. 

“Just get settled. Hard part’s over.” Butcher instructs, disembodied and out of view. As if to distract himself, he works his hands beneath each ass cheek, alternating between each with reassuring caresses. 

It feels so fucking good. Hughie straightens slowly, lifting his chest and straightening his spine. 

It’s without a doubt the most exposed position he’s ever been in. Facing away with his back to Butcher, ass on semi display, he’s grateful for the bare coverage that the shorts offer. It only intensifies how hot it makes him, warming with the shame and the sickening thrill in equal measure. 

He shifts his hips as he melts into the beyond gentle touches, almost comforting as he adjusts to the stretch inside him.

His cock bobs untouched against his belly, spurting pre-come. He’s hit with the sudden realisation that if he do something, the others will discover him like this, impaled on Butcher‘s cock in the middle of the living room.

The thought is enough to spur him into action. He rolls his hips hesitantly, testing the motion as he moves in a sloppy circle.

Behind him, Butcher fails to bite back a moan of his own, fingertips biting into his hips through the material. It might be the best fucking thing Hughie has ever heard. 

Empowered by the encouragement, he raises himself up on shaking thighs before dropping himself back down. The movement is awkward, uncoordinated at best, but the feeling of Butcher’s balls slapping against him when he descends is indescribable.

Desperate to quiet his racing mind, Hughie keeps moving regardless, rising and falling in a messy rhythm. Sitting completely upright, the angle is beyond intense. 

Needing to do more, he trails one of his hands to settle over his stomach. He flushes as he presses down into it, certain that he can almost feel the protrusion of Butcher there, filling him up to his belly with the sheer size of him. 

“Don’t quit your day job, but sure you’ve never done this before?” Butcher huffs behind him, with something like awe.

He’s so patient, so shockingly considerate in the display of reserve that it makes Hughie whine gratefully as he continues to bounce sloppily. 

Hughie doesn’t respond verbally, just picks up the pace determinedly. Surely it can’t be as good for Butcher as it is for him, unpractised as he is? 

“Full of surprises.” Butcher murmurs.

His hands come up to bracket Hughie’s waist, squeezing beneath the gentle jut of his rib cage.

Hughie moans at the contact, rhythm faltering, as his hands trail down to caress the baby fat that clings stubbornly to his hips. Butcher groans appraisingly, rubbing his fingers featherlight over the gentle slopes.

“You have no idea how fit you look.” Butcher breathes hotly, tickling his back with the expulsion of air. 

“With or without the muffin top?” Hughie asks, laughing. He’s starting to struggle now, thighs quivering as he ascends, what little stamina he possesses beginning to fail him. His own cock is leaking urgently, desperate for attention he knows he can’t give himself. 

“It means you’re a looker, you twat.” Butcher tells him. There’s no sarcasm in his voice, only a quiet huff of exasperation. 

Hughie wishes he could come off sounding so composed. Sweat is pouring down his body, his back aching with the strain of what feels like hours of working himself on Butcher’s cock.

He’s exhausted and delirious and could Butcher just help out already? 

“Please...” 

He’s begging before he can stop himself, strangled noises hitching in his throat as he begins grinding down mindlessly; anything to produce a response that isn’t just Butcher lying there, taking his fill. 

“What’s that now?” Butcher enquires, though Hughie doesn’t miss the way his cock pulses inside of him, intrigued at the new proposition. 

“Please fuck me.” He pleads. 

Powerful thighs flex minutely beneath Hughie’s own, chaffing him with the torturous rub of sweat and denim. He’s not going to be able to walk straight for days and the thought is as terrifying as it is dizzyingly hot.

“Thought that’s what we were doing, sunshine, unless you’ve got somewhere else to be?”

“N-no...” 

Oh fuck, it’s coming. He feels the tears building in his eyes and overflowing before he can get a handle on himself.

Even if he wanted to suppress it, hide it with his face turned away, his chest heaves with the force of the sob, shoulders shaking. 

“What’s the matter? Don’t be shy.” Butcher says to his back.

“Liar.” Hughie hiccups.

“Fuck’d you say?” Butcher demands. The muscles in his abdomen clench with the aborted attempt to surge upright, assert his alpha.

Hughie doesn’t know where the inspiration comes from. trying and failing to find the words to convey how badly he needs. He needs to try a different tact, get a rise out of the man beneath him. 

There’s no honour amongst thieves, but reputation is everything. 

“You’re not holding up your end!” He challenges, slowing his movements to a stand still. 

“Who said you could fucking stop?” 

“You can’t tell me anything cause your word doesn’t mean shit.”

Not having to look the other man in the eye has only made Hughie bolder in his determination. 

“Piss off. Don’t owe you anything, do I?” Butcher tries and fails to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“Fuck you.” Hughie spits angrily, shocked at himself.

It could be the sleeplessness or how tightly wound he is, the selfish voice in his head that tells him he’s a killer too and if Butcher can move through life taking what he wants, then so can he. 

“Language.” Butcher warns. 

It wouldn’t take much, the barest brush against his prostate, the faintest touch of his hand around his own length.

Hughie’s game but not stupid enough to risk it, not prepared to wear the consequences, but if he has to do this on his own, then fuck it.

“You’re all talk! You promised to destroy my ass, stuff me with your cock so deep that I’d taste it in the back of my throat....fill me with so much cum that I’d be bloated with it.”

His mouth is running away with him, but it’s giving him a second wind that he didn’t know he had.

He starts expending the last of his energy, writhing helplessly, desperately chasing his own release. Fuck him!

“That the best you got?” Butcher yawns, boredom thick in his tone.

And that really gets Hughie seeing red, rising to the bait.

He’s straight up dusted a fucking superhero - if Butcher thinks he can play off his weaknesses without repercussion, he has another thing fucking coming. 

“I don’t know Butcher - if you can’t get it up for me, maybe I’ll ask Starlight if she wants a piece of my sweet ass.”

Deathly silence. 

“Maybe after I fuck her, she’ll do me a solid and strap one on for me so I can get mine. She won’t be able to knock me up, but I’ll bet she’ll choke me out and beat this pussy up till I can’t see straight.” 

Oh, shit.

“Cheeky little cunt!”

Hughie nearly screams with relief when Butcher moves, nearly bucking him off completely as he shoves him forward onto his elbows and knees.

Blessedly they still remain connected, Hughie’s face buried in the cushion and his ass in the air.

It’s beyond humiliating but it doesn’t fucking matter because Butcher doesn’t miss a beat, barely gets his feet underneath him before he’s absolutely fucking railing him. 

The blunt crescents of bitten down finger nails bury themselves into soft flesh, one boot planted beside his face.

Hughie shrieks as his ass is hoisted painfully higher, head swimming at the strength of the larger man as he begins pounding into him from behind.

He finally realises it hurts so much because Butcher is holding him up by his shorts, cutting painfully into the creases of his hips, riding up his ass, catching as their bodies collide like rogue stars. 

“Dirty little slut - talking to me like that. I’ll wring your fucking neck and leave you to drown in a pool of your own saliva,” Butcher curses, hips pounding into him, merciless in the brutal pace he sets.

Hughie can only hold on, try not to suffocate or lose consciousness in the process. If this is how he goes, destroyed in a fit of rage, he’ll fucking take it. 

“You want her to fuck you? She can have the scraps when I’m finished with you.”

His powerful grip is the only thing keeping Hughie from collapsing, slamming him back onto his cock to meet every powerful thrust. 

His own dick catches painful against the fabric. The friction combined with the dampness is exquisite agony, too much and not nearly enough all at once. 

“She won’t want you once your damaged goods.” Butcher promises savagely. Hughie’s sore and tight and exhausted and it feels like he’s been fucking him for hours, just as his own movements begin to increase in their intensity, speeding up as he races towards his climax.

“You’ll already be so stuffed with my load that you’ll look ready to pop, won’t be able to do anything but lie on your back and beg for release because you’ll be so fat with it.”

“Please let me come.” Hughie begs helplessly. Impossibly, despite not having being touched this entire time, he can feel his balls drawing up into his body. 

“Show me how bad you want it.” Butcher demands cruelly. 

“So empty, please, need you to ruin me.” Hughie cries openly, shamelessly shoving his ass back to meet him, unable to hide the wail as fresh tears spill down his cheeks. 

“Who do you belong to?” Butcher growls possessively. The strength of the man is astounding, controlling both their movements as he drags Hughie back onto him over and over.

“Yours, only yours, make me yours!” Hughie screams.

His hole squelches loudly, gaping helpless. 

“Touch your clit, sweetheart.” Butcher says finally. 

He gives Hughie ass a firm slap just as he gets a hand around his dick through the wrecked material; and it’s all that it takes to wring his climax from him.

He nearly whites out with the sheer force of it, coming back to himself with a shriek as Butcher drags them both backwards, landing solidly on his back on the couch.

Hughie hears himself scream again as the movement buries Butcher impossibly deeper, dragging over the deep seated spot inside him that causes his desire to spark anew.

Butcher support his almost limp form, fucking up into him with renewed leverage from below.

“Touch yourself love, know you’ve got one more left...going to fuck you through it.” Butcher pants heavily, threatening to split open.

“Oh fuck, I can’t...”

“I’ve got you.”

Hughie believes him, begins tweaking his nipples viciously, crying out in shock when his second orgasm crashes over him suddenly, breaking like a wave. 

Butcher speeds up, burying himself to the hilt, neck straining and flushed.

Hughie groans as he feels him paint his insides, warm and wet and satisfying.

He’s barely had a chance to savour the come down when Butcher tips him back forward unceremoniously, sliding out of him with an oversentised groan.

Hughie lets himself be manhandled, too cum drunk to protest. He frowns when Butcher stands to sling his legs over the top of the couch, his head hanging down over the lip of the seat.

“Is this your idea of after care?” He snorts, not bothering to lift his head. His shorts are pooling at his hips, disgusting sticky, ass on display to the whole room. He couldn’t give less of a fuck.

Butcher smirks at him darkly as he dresses.

“Well, you want it to take, don’t you?” 

Hughie frowns, before understanding settles, his face turning a violent shade of red. He struggles to get down but can’t manage it; legs suddenly jelly beneath the weight of his own embarrassment. 

“Don’t.”

Butcher silences him but leaning down to kiss him on the mouth. It’s the barest brush of his lips, the whisper of his beard the only real indication that it’s even real. 

“No fear, your secret’s safe with me,” Butcher laughs, “I’ll leave it to you to tell the lads we’re expecting.” 

He caresses Hughie’s cheek almost fondly before getting up to wander out of the room.

If Hughie knows one thing for certain, keep sake or no, he’s never wearing these shorts again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Butcher's princess](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28315794) by [Morggans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morggans/pseuds/Morggans)




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